Sharpe stared at the data on the screen, deciding to skirt the boundaries of his information security arrangement with the Pentagon. Agent O'Reilly was not authorized for CIS Category One information, and he didn't plan to directly pass her any information. She had already thought to conduct an INTERPOL search, which was not a violation. Still, by nudging her further, Sharpe was probably crossing a line that could heat things up for him, but he was accustomed to taking chances, and a little heat never bothered him.
"Dana, did you submit a photo identification match request through INTERPOL's database?" he said, and that was all it took for her to run with it.
"No, sir. Not through INTERPOL. National NCIC does it automatically for us. Same with VICAP. Do you think they're foreign operatives? They all have pretty solid histories here in the U.S.," she said.
"No assumptions," he said and leaned in closer to whisper, "Start with Petrovich…and let's keep this between the two of us for now."
"All right, I'll start working on this," she said and started typing.
As Sharpe stood up to walk over to Special Agent Mendoza near the front of the operations center, he saw pictures from Daniel Petrovich's current Maine driver's license and former Department of Defense military ID flash onto her screen. She looked back at him, and he nodded before turning away.
Chapter Thirty
9:00 p.m.
Portland, Maine
The Chevy Impala crept down Lawn Avenue, preceded by two Portland Police Department Suburbans. Beyond the vehicles, invisible to Edwards on the dimly lit street, two additional Suburbans approached from the opposite direction. From the front seat of the Impala, Edwards secretly admired the heavily armed men standing on the running boards of the trucks, clinging with one hand to the roof bars. Though technically a two-way street, Edwards watched uncomfortably as the thick Suburbans squeezed through cars, and the men tucked their bodies tightly against the truck.
He had voiced his desire to ride on one of the trucks with the SWAT team, but his request was shot down immediately. The SWAT commander wanted Edward's entourage to wait in the parking lot, with the other non-tactical units, until the house was secured, but Edwards finally put his foot down. He wasn't about to sit back like some loser, waiting for the "all safe" signal. He'd rushed through plenty of doors into dangerous situations before, and this situation was no different. They agreed on a compromise. Edwards would follow the SWAT team into the house, while the rest of his FBI team secured the front of the house.
Edwards felt a flutter of adrenaline when the Suburban's brake lights bathed his car in red light, illuminating its occupants and momentarily blinding him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, which he tracked in the side view mirror. Two figures darted across the back of his car, causing Edwards to go wide-eyed. He quickly assumed this was the surveillance team that had been stationed across the street from Petrovich's house.
He turned his head back to the front and caught a glimpse of another figure positioned behind a tree ahead of the Suburbans. He could see the outline of a tactical helmet, so he knew it was one of theirs, but it still unnerved him to see someone emerge from the darkness so quickly. The figure braced a scoped assault rifle against the tree, pointing toward the front of Petrovich's house. He felt a little better knowing that they had someone covering the assault run on the house. A few more feet and they should be in position. His headset crackled to life.
"Standby. Standby…Go. All teams. Go!"
The team attached to the Suburban in front of him jumped to the pavement and sprinted toward the front door of Petrovich's house and Edwards scrambled out of the door, finally drawing his service pistol for the first time in two years. It had been a while since Special Agent Edwards had participated in a raid, and he found himself a little disoriented on the street. He ran around the front of the Impala, noticing that the passenger compartment light grossly illuminated his entire team. That stupid ass Ravenell had forgotten to turn off the interior lights, and now he'd probably have to endure some kind of a lecture from the SWAT guys.
He raced between two parked cars and sprinted through the shattered white picket fence gate, slowing as he approached the team. None of them acknowledged his approach. They were focused on their objective, which was a highly trained, extremely dangerous terrorist operative. The SWAT team finished stacking up on the front door, and Edwards just hoped they didn't kill Petrovich on sight.
Another team, just out of his sight behind a large evergreen bush to his right, swarmed around the mudroom door. He wasn't one hundred percent sure, since he had been excluded from the assault-planning phase, but he thought there was another team around back doing the same thing. As soon as everyone at the front door stopped moving, he heard more reports on the radio, as each team reported that they were ready. The final round of reports unnerved him, and he felt his bladder loosen just slightly.
"All teams be advised, there is movement in the kitchen. Rear team. Take this suspect upon entry. Stand by. Stand by. Breach. All teams. Breach."
The second SWAT member in line rushed the door carrying a portable battering ram, which resembled a thick metal cylinder with two handles on top. He swung the solid metal ram at a spot on the door just above the handle, and the door slammed inward, releasing the acoustic guitar sounds of the Gypsy Kings into the neighborhood. The ram had barely receded from the open doorway before seven heavily-armed men disappeared into the house.
Special Agent Edwards moved forward with the team onto the porch, but stopped when he heard crashing glass and screaming. He decided to stay out of the house until things calmed down, and he wasn't altogether convinced that the SWAT guys wouldn't try to knock him flat. He didn't like the way they looked at him.
Less than one minute passed before Edwards heard "all clear in the house" passed by the assault team commander. He holstered his weapon and entered the house, which had a warm, but purposefully constructed Pottery Barn feel. The Petrovich couple clearly hadn't held back spending money on decorating their house. He noted a few expensively framed local prints set against the deep rust-colored paint in the hallway that passed the stairs.
Edwards approached the warmly lit kitchen, where he heard an angry female voice spitting obscenities. As he entered the kitchen area, he noticed that one of the pendant lights over the kitchen island was swinging, and the deep blue glass casing of the light lay scattered on the dark brown granite. To his left, more shattered glass covered the small pine table and hardwood flooring in the small nook area right off the kitchen. A SWAT team member stood in the middle of an opening that used to be a sliding glass door, his assault rifle pointed downward at the deck, but still in a ready grip.
Shards of broken glass crackled under Special Agent Edwards' expensive leather shoes as he rounded the brown granite kitchen island to get a better view of what was causing all of the commotion. He was immediately turned on by what he saw.
"Careful. She moves quick," said one of the black-clad officers near the mudroom door.
An athletic woman, dressed in black running shorts and a jog bra, lay pressed to the hardwood floor by two men in full body armor and tactical gear. The woman's face, covered by her luxurious brown hair, was jammed against the dark pine planks by one of the men's thick, gloved hands. He really wanted to the see the face attached to this woman's body. He saw a few shards of blue glass from the pendant light near one of the officer's boots and hoped they hadn't jammed her face down on any glass. If they did, she was taking the pain pretty well. He suddenly liked the possibility of her taking pain. Another agent kneeled on her lower back, struggling to tighten the black zip tie surrounding her wrists. She struggled against the men and almost turned over onto her side.
"Will someone fucking sit on her legs!" the officer attempting to cuff her shouted, and another SWAT officer edged past the refrigerator and nearly jumped down on her legs.
The woman cried out in pain and gave it one more try, nearly toppling the guy working on her hands. She
was strong, and Edwards felt strangely aroused. He wanted to be on top of her and had to use every ounce of self-restraint he possessed to keep himself from making the suggestion. They'd laugh him out of the house, and frankly, he was better off where he stood. Right now, she looked like she could snap him in half.
"Hit her with the stun gun!" the officer on her back yelled, then mumbled, "Calm this bitch down."
"Sergeant! We need to hit her with the zapper!" another officer yelled into the house.
Sergeant Jimmy Haldron ran into the kitchen from the family room, pushed Edwards aside, and quickly assessed the situation. He leaned down toward the woman's head to speak to her.
"Hey, calm down, ma'am. This is over. There's nothing you can do about your situation right now, except calm down. We don't want to hurt you, but we need you to take it easy. We're not here for you, and if you calm down, you'll be released once we finish our job here. Can you help me with this?" he said, in a calm, authoritative voice.
The woman stopped twisting and seemed to melt into the flooring. The officer on her back pressed down harder, yanking the twist ties deeply into her wrists, causing her to gasp.
"Donnelly! Take it easy," Sergeant Haldron said and gave him a pissed off look.
"We'll get those off you soon. Everyone is a little amped up here," he said.
Edwards decided he would step in at this point and take charge of the situation, now that SWAT was no longer needed. He couldn't wait to dismiss these idiots from the scene.
"Sergeant, have your men move her over into the family room, on the couch. I assume Petrovich isn't here?" Edwards said.
"No. His car is gone, and the house is clear. My teams are checking for hidden compartments," he said and directed orders to his men, "Get her up, and bring her over here."
"Have your men start working the neighborhood for leads. I'll deal with her," Edwards said, excited about starting his interrogation of Jessica Petrovich.
"My men aren't going door to door. We've got detectives and patrol officers for that. You want a couple of my guys to stand by while you talk to her?" Haldron said, looking him square in the eye.
"Probably not a bad idea. She seems a little feisty," Edwards admitted.
"Feisty? She came at me with some kind of judo chop," the officer pinning her head to the floor said.
"This Nazi stormtrooper tried to butt stroke me with his rifle. I was just standing there," the woman hissed.
"She came at me with a weapon," the officer said.
"I was about to have some yogurt when you crashed through the glass. Sorry if I couldn't react fast enough to drop the spoon in my hand," she said, in a voice muffled by her squished face.
Edwards glanced at the wet floor between her waist and the counter cabinets, and spotted a small spoon protruding from under her body. He chuckled and turned to Sergeant Haldron.
"I'll have my techs bag up the spoon she used against your officers," he said, pointing at the silverware next to her body.
Nobody laughed, and he heard a few mumbled "fuck you's," but he didn't care. They would never respect him, and he would always resent their type. He had better things to do with his time, and one of those things was Daniel Petrovich's wife. When they lifted her off the kitchen floor, he got really excited. She was beautiful, almost exotic, possibly Middle Eastern. Their eyes locked for a moment, and he would have sworn her murderous glare softened. He couldn't wait to break the news to her that her husband was wanted by the FBI for murder and terrorism. He'd watch her world crumble and her self-esteem evaporate, then he'd offer her a shoulder to cry on, and maybe a drink down in that crummy little downtown area they call the Old Port. Maybe this trip wouldn't be such a waste of time after all.
"We're not here for her. Take it easy," Edwards said.
One of the officers holding her hissed in her ear, "Just make a move and I'll bust up that pretty face."
"Sergeant Haldron!" Edwards yelled, and Haldron walked over to intervene.
"What do you need?" Haldron said, clearly sick of Edwards.
"I just need some professionalism. And I need you to control your men. Now sit her down on the couch and remove her restraints," Edwards said, staring at one of the officers holding her.
"Are you fucking kidding me? We just busted our asses getting this one under control," the same officer said.
"I don't think that would be a good idea," Sergeant Haldron said, and a few other officers chimed in from the kitchen.
Edwards walked briskly past the officers, pushing his way through to the back of the kitchen. At this point, he had experienced enough of their insubordination. They were undermining his authority with the witness and sabotaging his carefully laid plans to coax information out of her. These goons had no idea that nothing else mattered at this point. Only Jessica Petrovich held the key to finding her husband, and if he didn't play the situation right, she'd shut down for good. He grabbed a pair of kitchen shears from the knife rack and walked up to Jessica, who was still in the grips of two very large, heavily geared officers.
"Move out of the way," he said, and the two officers let go of Jessica.
Edwards cut her plastic restraints and tossed the scissors to the floor behind him. He lingered close to her, and her smell was intoxicating. He felt himself starting to float away from the scene and needed to ground himself. She was incredible.
"Sorry about this. Why don't you grab a seat on the couch," he said softly, before turning to Haldron.
"I don't want any of these guys in here. Understood?"
"You want to be in here alone with this one?" Haldron asked.
Edwards considered Haldron's comment and decided that it held no double entendre. He wanted to be alone with this woman more than anyone could possibly know, but that's not what Haldron meant. Couldn't be. They thought she was dangerous.
"I think she'll be fine without someone trying to smash her skull in," Edwards said.
"She was holding a weapon!" an officer from the kitchen yelled.
"She was holding a spoon, dummy," Edwards said.
"Hey. Take it easy on my men. They don't have the luxury of walking into a cleared structure. They go in first and have no idea what they'll find. I didn't notice you rushing in behind them," Haldron said.
"I didn't want to get shot…by them," Edwards said, and Haldron looked like he might lose his composure.
Standing peacefully in front of the couch, Jessica regarded them both, showing a small sign of smiling at Edwards.
"I'll give you some privacy here, but as long as Portland police officers are required on the scene, I'll keep some of my guys posted to keep an eye on her."
"That's fine, Sergeant," Edwards said and turned to Jessica.
"Please. Have a seat. Are you all right? I saw some glass on the floor," he said, walking over to her.
"I think I'm okay. I just haven't had any time to process what's happening. Someone said something about my husband being a murderer. What's going on here? Who's going to pay for everything they've broken? Look, I…"
"Take it easy, Mrs. Petrovich. You need to take a few moments to sit back and relax…"
"Is my husband okay? Did something happen to him?" she said, rubbing her face with her hands.
Her eyes were red, and he could see that she was starting to tear up. Fortunately for Edwards, she wore no make up to ruin the face with running streaks. God, she was stunning. Angular face, dark exotic skin, or she tanned a lot. Either way, he didn't care. He didn't care how she got there. The dark skin, killer looks and kick boxer physique was all he needed. He was glad to know that Petrovich wouldn't be fucking her anymore. He couldn't stand the thought of someone else entangled in those legs. He had his work cut out for him, but he was starting to feel confident about his chances of seeing her naked tonight.
"Ms. Petrovich…"
"Jess. Please call me Jess. What's going on with my husband?"
"It's complicated," Edwards said, taking a seat on the leather chair next to the
couch.
He could move over to the couch if she started crying, but didn't want to seem eager to get close to her.
"Is he safe? What were these guys expecting to find?" she pressed.
"I don't know how to put this, but your husband is the prime suspect in a federal murder investigation," he said.
"That doesn't make any sense, Agent…?"
"Edwards. But just call me Justin."
"Justin, none of this makes any sense. I think you all have the wrong house, or something isn't right," she said, looking around the room, frightened.
At this point, though only a few officers lingered in the family room with them, dozens of officers had poured into the house over the past few minutes and more were entering. Since the house wasn't considered a crime scene, the Portland police wouldn't tiptoe through her house. This would only get worse as they tore the place apart looking for hidden compartments or clues linking Daniel Petrovich to the murders and the past life he had hidden from his wife. He might need to get her out of here soon. She would find it hard to concentrate on him once his team started taking photos out of the frames for scanning.
"Jessica, how long have you and your husband been married?" Edwards asked, though he knew the answer would somehow eat away at something inside of him.
He glanced at a wedding photo sitting on a dark wood side table next to the couch. The picture had been taken with the ocean in the background. He thought it looked like the East Coast, somewhere north. Possibly right here in Maine.
"What do you…we've been married for four years," she said.
"Have you known each other for a long time?"
"Long enough to know that you guys have made a serious mistake. This is ridiculous. We're talking about having kids, and…does my husband have a lawyer yet? Maybe I shouldn't be talking to you right now. I need to see my husband," she said, stringing each sentence together one after the other quickly.
Edwards needed to diffuse the lawyer talk quick. She wasn't a suspect and technically didn't need one, but if she shut down on him and contacted a lawyer, he knew exactly what kind of advice the lawyer will give her: Shut up. He had limited time to work on this one and hoped to wrap things up tonight, in more ways than one. He didn't need some lawyer cooling things off.
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